How My Pump Ended Up in the Trash

Wearing an insulin pump, with or without CGM, can be challenging to even the best person's patience. Between incessant alarms, strange bulges under clothing, tubing that pops out at the most inopportune moments, especially when there is a door handle in the vicinity, itchy infusion set adhesive and the pain in the morning after a night of the pump under my back, I'm no exception. Sometimes this device really gets on my nerves.

But it's fairly easy to tolerate a long list of annoyances when the device in question at the same time makes life so much better. The control I was able to achieve on as many as eight to ten injections a day is nothing to the control I can get with the tiny doses that a pump delivers, and its hour-to-hour variations in basal insulin delivery. When the CGM beeps from under my tunic at work to warn of a low I'm simultaneously embarrassed by the possibility of it being heard by the patient whose wisdom tooth I'm about to pull, and grateful that it has potentially prevented a dangerous situation from occurring. The latter emotion wins out every time, and every good A1c I get whilst using this technology reminds me of that.

I'm still human though. And I can be a very irritable and obstinate specimen of humanity, not least when my blood sugar is out of range or bouncing around like a rubber ball.

I've definitely been heading through a bit of a rough patch, diabetes-wise, lately. I'm seeing far too many high numbers and daily low numbers with rapid swings between them. I've been getting deeply frustrated that despite the technology and knowledge I have, I haven't been able to find either the skill or the motivation to turn things around. The messier things have got, the more I'm allowing fear to keep driving it on. I'm eating too many carbs at lunch and under-bolusing for them, fearful of lows. I'm over-correcting highs, in a rage at seeing these big numbers and thinking about the complications they may point to, and I'm over-correcting the resulting lows in a panic.

On Sunday night, it got a little too much. I'd swung from high to low and back again all weekend and my mood was touchy to say the least. I was fed up of the annoyances of the pump when it didn't seem to be helping me any to reign it all in. The final straw came as I stood up from the sofa and the pump came away from my waistband. The short piece of tubing between the pump itself and the point it was tucked in to my clothes was enough to allow the pump a nice swinging arc, straight in to an open bottle of wine we'd been about to enjoy a glass of, knocking it off balance and on to the floor.

Something inside me snapped an in a split seconds rage, I'd twisted my infusion set apart and the pump went sailing in to the waste paper bin in the corner with a resounding “fuck you” from me. It wasn't rational or sensible, but at that moment it had all got to much.

After I'd had a good cry, and Ian had told me it was okay to be mad and angry,after he, recognising my burnout, had tested my blood sugar for me (low, unsurprisingly), he also extracted the pump from the bin for me.

But I wasn't ready to be friends again that easily. It just felt like all of the hassles of wearing this device just weren't worth it anymore, that I could do almost as well without. I'm a stubborn person, and for some reason, this time I wanted to have a stab at proving the impossible.

I flounced off to bed without my pump, leaving it lonely on the dining table.

For two hours it sat there in the dark, while I got engrossed in a good book under a cosy duvet. My blood sugar climbed from it's low to 5.9 (106) and stayed there.

“Hah” I thought. “I can do this without you.”

Believing my point sufficiently proved, I reluctantly allowed Ian to reconnect me before I fell asleep.

Of course, diabetes had the last laugh, as I knew, deep down, that it would. The missing basal, that I didn't bother to replace, ensured that I climbed steadily for the next couple of hours and suffered an interrupted nights sleep.

From the moment I tossed my pump in to the trash, I knew I was being ridiculous. I knew I couldn't win. But sometimes throwing an enormous strop is the only way I know to deal with the enormity of diabetes.

I honestly felt better for it.

Comments

[Scott K. Johnson]

Great post Caro.

[Minnesota Nice]

Happy Birthday Caro! (You are on the b'day list over at Tu Diabetes - hope they got the day right.......)

[Tony Rose]

Great post - I think those with diabetes can definitely relate to your scenario. I have told off my meter a few times and almost smashed it to bits on a few occasions. Just know you are not alone. It happens to the best of us.